


Krov’ Moyey Krovi

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [13]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Acts of Vengeance, Blood and Torture, Canon Character Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mob Violence, Mob war, Semi-Graphic Death Scene, Street Shootings, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6780757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Congratulations," Jim murmurs, "you've now unleashed Hell."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Krov’ Moyey Krovi

**Author's Note:**

> As I am known to do, things are going from light-hearted and good-natured to....the other end of the spectrum. Expect blood, bullets, and revenge served ice-cold on a silver platter.

They’re screaming. Everyone. Everyone on the street. Everyone around her. Men, women, children. The young and the old. They’re all screaming. Screaming to each other. At each other. Screaming for help. Screaming in pain. Screaming to a God who—one must wonder—seems to have abandoned them, just as He abandoned this city.

Maybe He’s finally abandoned her.

They’ve been screaming for a while. Maybe an hour, maybe a day…maybe…maybe…maybe…

 _Blood._ Blood on her hands. Blood on the ground. Blood on her face and in her hair. Blood everywhere.

***

Friday evenings aren’t, per say, the worst time for Gotham City’s finest—there are, and plenty of people can attest to this, many worse times both in the past and surely to come—but they certainly aren’t the best. And right now, Jim Gordon can think of a few other things he could be doing that would be neither this monumental a waste of time nor this migraine-inducing.

Bar fights aren’t even Homicide’s jurisdiction, unless someone drops a body on the wood floor—and even then, it’s usually dealt with on someone else’s plate—but budget cuts and a sudden influx of paid leave have brought him and Harvey to this place: a hole-in-the-wall dive south of Main Street, where the latest horse race has led to a mess of broken beer bottles, upturned tables, chairs busted over a few heads, and a general state of chaos. Essen called in every available officer to deal with this headache, and Jim happened to be out grabbing a late dinner when the call came in. Dragging Harvey in, cursing and grumbling under his breath, is continuing to develop a headache into something less palatable.

Nygma is here too, tending to the worst of the cuts and scrapes—which, frankly, are certainly in need of attention—with an unnecessary level of good cheer. How, exactly, the man manages to be so pleasant at any kind of crime scene is beyond comprehension. Yet here he is, humming quietly to himself over the damage caused by a broken bottle to one man’s left cheek, and nods a greeting when Jim and Harvey come within view.

“Evening, Detectives.” He says; Jim will at least give him props for not labeling this a “good” evening. “Terrible mess, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got a hell of a way with understatements, Nygma.” Harvey mutters, tossing away his half-eaten sandwich with no small remorse for the loss. “Anybody dead?”

“No casualties documented thus far.” Ed answers, finishing with his patient and then scooting him along with a flourish. “A few unfortunate souls have broken bones, and even more have sustained considerable damage to their epidermis, but nothing life-threatening.”

“Then our work here is done. Let’s go, Jimbo.”

He shrugs free of Harvey’s tugging hand and steps closer. “Who threw the first punch?” he asks, ignoring his partner’s irritated grumblings about how this is neither their case nor their concern.

“Judging from the offensive wounds to his knuckles and forearms,” Ed replies, swiveling lightly on one heel to the left and indicating with his pen across the room, “you’re looking for the balding, middle-aged man seated closest to the bar, nursing what I approximate to be his twelfth beer of the evening and wearing a most unflattering shade of lime green.”

In repayment for his grumbling, Jim makes Harvey do the honors and have a few words with the aggressor. It gives him a moment of peace and quiet, though not without a nagging urge to light a cigarette and determine whether or not all those rumors about nicotine relieving stress actually amounts to anything.

He spends these gracious moments of silence leaning against the wall and letting his mind wander. He thinks of Bruce, and Alfred, and smiles quietly to himself in recollection of the two hours he spent at Wayne Manor, not three nights ago, to fulfill Alfred’s imploring wish of talking some sense into Bruce’s “hormone-driven, adolescence-ridden, impenetrable head”. He never considers time spent with either of them wasted, though he knows nothing said that night lingered longer than five minutes in one ear before slipping out the other.

He can’t blame Bruce, and a considerable part of him is both amused and, oddly enough, a little impressed. So much of the city’s elite keep to their quiet, perfectly-ordered lives and never sully themselves with the dirt of commoners. Bruce, admittedly, is taking the urge to “spread his wings” a little far, sprinting across rooftops at any hour of day or night, in the company of a young, leather-sporting, free-spirited street thief. But there is something rather appropriate about the image. He can’t say what, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to say what, but it just is. It simply just _is_.

And then he thinks of Iris. He thinks of the tension coiling tighter and tighter within this city. Of rumors circulating beyond the shadowed parts of Gotham, creeping forward and reaching ears near and far. He quietly counts the days since he last shared her company, and quickly determines five days is much too long. He’ll stop by tonight—no, not at this hour…—tomorrow. He’ll come over tomorrow morning, maybe even in time for breakfast, and check in on things. She’s not a child, and perfectly capable of handling her own affairs, but the paternal concern comes shockingly natural to him these days. He can’t help himself. Surely Iris won’t begrudge him a short visit?

Of course not. If she hasn’t turned him away these past months, she won’t start now.

***

There are hands pulling urgently at her shoulders—large, broad-palmed, calloused fingers… _Butch_ —and a voice calling her name, over and over and over. The voice tells her to hurry, to stand up, that they need to move and need to move now, and…and…and…

“Look at me.” Another voice trickles in her ear, barely a whisper, barely audible amongst screams and shrieks and the lingering resonance of gunshots. She doesn’t understand how or why she hears this voice so clearly, then she registers the movement of her own lips. The voice is hers.

“Look at me.” She says again, no louder, though with a desperation to match the frantic scrambling movements of her hands. “Look at me. Stay. Stay with me. _Moy tigr_ …please. Please,” her hands slide upward, red smears marking the path, and cup pale features—so pale… _too pale_ —between stained palms, “Victor, _please_ …look at me.”

His fingers wrap unsteadily around her wrist, a grip much too weak, far too fragile, and her lungs lock around the next breath, strangling it in her throat. No. _No… **no**_ … “Victor—” she whispers, ignorant of the hands continuing to pull at her, their owner thinking of her safety when Victor is…when he’s…

His mouth is stained red, just like the rest of him, the rest of him visible to her gaze, and the thinnest trickle of blood creeps down his chin when his lips part to speak. It’s barely a whisper, more a gasped breath from crippled lungs, but she hears it as clearly as she would a violent eruption of sound—like the gunshots which filled the air only moments ago…

“Fight for me.”

Three words, slurred together on a single breath, and then his grip slackens, and the fingers fall from her wrist to the concrete. His eyes struggle, just briefly, then flutter closed with an air of finality that cuts her to the bone, hot as fire, cold as ice, with a pain that blinds her, paralyzes her for a moment, and then she hears a new scream. This time, it’s her own.

***

Harvey’s grumbling about wasting a perfectly good night off, a couple patrol officers are loudly contemplating getting a drink, and Ed is making a few final notes in his little book, thoughtfully nibbling his lower lip during the process. Jim is debating a drink of his own, then dismisses the idea and thinks maybe a late-night movie with popcorn sounds oddly enjoyable. Maybe Iris would let him through the doors for such an occasion, or he could call and play host to her, for once. They could set up in the living room, put in one of those black-and-white classics she’s so fond of, and—

“Gordon!!” One of the beat-cops, Steers, yells from his patrol car, waving with one hand and holding his dispatch radio in the other, “Shooting, three blocks away!”

He doesn’t even bother with the car; he's spent enough time in the military, and even more time in Gotham, that running three blocks requires as much effort as running down the stairs in his apartment complex. The energy offered by a sudden adrenaline rush certainly helps.

Steers follows, an eager young lad ready to lend a hand, perhaps with dreams of climbing the ranks one day, or maybe just hoping to prove himself. Jim doesn’t have time to question motives, only ask for details in a conversation that’s shouted between them. What happened? When did it happen? How many wounded? How many dead? Any idea who did it?

It’s a routine conversation, for these things. And, as par for the course, there are far more questions than answers.

***

The scene is absolute chaos. Witnesses are rounded up in patrol cars and ambulances, wrapped in blankets and each assigned an officer to take their statements. The street is littered with shell casings and blood. Parked cars and shop windows are riddled with bullets. The wounded are rushed to Gotham General. Those already dead and lost are accounted for by Nygma, who has lost his earlier cheerful disposition and replaced it with an unnaturally-serious expression.

At last count, the dead number twelve. The wounded, at least double that.

“What the _hell_ happened here?” Harvey asks, adjusting his fedora to reveal a deeply-furrowed brow. Jim just shakes his head and takes yet another look at the mess around him. One guess is just as good as any, right now.

***

She insisted on extracting the bullets herself, without any assistance. It took three hours, and Alexander watched her through it all. He looked on at the surgical precision of her movements, the way she drew each bullet out with steady hands and perfect composure. He remembers her previous employment at the police morgue, working with dead bodies day and night. Her technique doesn’t surprise him. He’s heard she was an exceptional worker, skilled and meticulous.

Her composure, on the other hand, concerns him. It concerns him greatly.

He’s told by Butch that she screamed, when the tiger lost consciousness. That she pressed herself to her lover, covered him with her flesh, and called out for him until she had no voice left. Butch told him, when the tiger remained unresponsive, when his pulse was barely a dull thrum beneath chilled flesh, he was prepared to gather her in an embrace and console her tears.

But there were no tears, Butch told him. She suddenly calmed. Her voice fell silent. Her posture changed. Her behavior failed to be that of a grieving lover and instead a business-minded doctor, or surgeon, and as soon as they crossed the manor threshold, she went to work. No words, no tears, nothing but silence. And three hours later, there remains nothing but silence.

The tiger is alive. Barely—there are no movements visible but the shallow rise and fall of his chest—but alive all the same. Iris cleans the area of blood, wipes the stains from his flesh, then retreats to her bathroom. While she tends to herself, Alexander summons Nikolai and Butch—the strongest of the gathered—and personally oversees them while they move the body to the shared bedroom. He fears the worst, having lived too long to believe otherwise, and wants the tiger to pass on from this world in comfort, surrounded by soft sheets and familiar scents. The good death, as it were.

Iris sees his work as soon as she steps out from the bathroom, steam coiling around her feet, figure wrapped securely in blue silk. She quietly approaches the still figure of her lover, makes a minute adjustment to the coverings, then finishes braiding her hair. In the hallway, Alexander stands and waits. She approaches the doors, meets his eye for a moment, then closes herself in with the dying. No words are shared.

She stays in solitude for another hour, then emerges and relocates to the study. He gathers the family in her presence, and the uproar to follow would make the Roman Senate envious. There is an outcry for blood, declarations of war, demands for vengeance. A debate follows with similar intensity: who will be the one to avenge their leader? Every man boasts his own traits, sets great importance on his individual skills. His sons are no different: Dimitri cites his cunning mind and supreme calculations; Nikolai boasts of his strength; Vladimir his skill with a gun. Back and forth, on and on, for an hour. Then two hours. Eventually, the third hour approaches, and the debate continues on without resolution.

Alexander simply sits, nurses his brandy, and waits. In a chair before the hearth, Iris sits without movement, with barely an indication of sustained life in her body. Her eyes stare into dancing flames, their golden hues playing eerily across her pale features and pooling in icy depths. She sits in silence, unaffected by the madness around her. Her posture is not that of the bereaved, but of something else. Something beyond a proper name, but with such a cold and ferocious aura that his bones nearly quake just to behold it.

The second set of study doors, those closest to Iris’ placement, open nearly in silence and three women enter the throng. The debate doesn’t pause for their arrival, but Alexander watches with great intrigue. They are, by no means, unattractive, and their beauty is sharpened in the wrappings of black leather and the glint of guns, holstered neatly at womanly curves. One is tall, built lean with dark skin; the second boasts more curves than the others, with a great length of dark hair piled atop her head and heavily-shadowed eyes; the third is pale, petite, and the one to approach Iris without waver and kneel before her chair as though it is a throne. The others remain standing, but they create a little shield around her, shadows highlighted in fire’s glow, eyes glittering like wild dogs at their master’s beck and call.

“Enough.” Iris finally says, and silence falls over the room like molten lead. She makes no grand gesture, nor does she stand, but the gathered hear ice in her tone, and it settles the earlier discord without further dramatics.

Vladimir makes his implorations, seeking to be her champion in the name of vengeance. Nikolai proposes a joint attack, bringing his brothers together in one great force, to fight for She-Wolf. There is a murmur of agreement throughout the rest. Alexander finishes his brandy and sets it aside. Iris holds her silence a moment more, then releases a slow breath. Somehow, impossibly, it feels like a winter chill settling in the air.

“Go.” Iris says, staring still into the hearth. “Take your desired pounds of flesh. Steal into businesses, into his fortress, and cut down anyone who swears allegiance to him. But you will not harm the innocent. Enough bodies were left dead in the street tonight; husbands now without wives, wives without their husbands, and children without parents. If I hear any one of you took a life unnecessarily, I will have your hides. Now go.”

 _En mass_ exodus, they file through the study doors. Already, eager murmurings echo in their passing, discussions of who shall strike first and in what manner death will be dealt. Alexander is left alone, in the company of his brother’s heir and her strange female comrades. Then, as he watches in silence, she slowly rises from the chair, and the three women step closer. Their eyes are so very dark, but there is blood in each one.

“Find the men who dealt death tonight.” Iris says, her voice ringing clear in the silence. “Bring me the one responsible for putting five bullets in my husband—still breathing, still intact.”

“And the rest?” the dark-skinned one asks; Alexander nearly thinks her bold, brazen perhaps, but Iris appears unfazed, and he can only conclude these women are not held in a servant’s regard. There is a deeper relationship at work here.

“Get rid of them.” Iris answers, and the women smile.

***

When morning breaks on a Gotham Saturday, Jim is downing his tenth cup of cheap coffee in the breakroom, swallowing through the bitter aftertaste that resembles transmission fluid, and then chucks the Styrofoam cup in the trash can with a low groan. The number of dead has risen to fifteen; and there are still a dozen wounded in critical condition at the hospital. He remembers a worse scene only once before, when Gotham streets were riddled with bullets in a shooting war that left Don Maroni dead, Don Falcone retiring to the south, and only one victor left to take the throne.

The memory leaves an even worse taste in his mouth.

“Detective Gordon,” Ed’s voice calls softly from his left; the dark-haired man looks the most disheveled Jim can remember seeing, with dark shadows lining his eyes, hair in mild disarray, absent his jacket and tie, both shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, and a number of stains across the fabric which may never come out, “I just received a notification from Gotham General. One of the injured parties, after sustaining two bullets through the upper left thigh and lower right calf, has successfully awakened from his surgery and has been deemed coherent enough to talk.”

Finally, good news. “Thank you.” Jim whispers, half as a prayer. “Thank you, Ed. Tell Harvey I went to the hospital; I have my cell, if he needs me.”

In his haste and enthusiasm, he nearly takes out Lee when she steps in his path. He catches her mid-stumble, hears her heels scrape the floor, and his memory chooses that precise moment to throw images at him: images of Iris carefully balancing a stack of paper, towering higher than her range of vision, and slipping halfway down the stairs on an old coffee stain never cleaned from that morning. In place of Lee, he feels Iris’ fragile frame in his arms instead, caught at the last possible moment. He hears the papers fluttering free around them in a lazy descent, and the laughter of those who bore witness to the scene. Then he hears his own voice, taking full advantage of every bit of authority allowed him by the detective’s badge, ordering them to gather each paper and place them neatly on his desk.

 _Iris._ Two instincts collide inside him—the cop and the father, warring furiously with the other. The father speaks louder, and he listens.

“Jim?” Lee asks, concern in her voice and in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He releases her, too suddenly, even roughly. He tells Lee there’s been a change of plans, even when she won’t know what the original plan ever was, and then grabs Steers by the sleeve when the young man happens to pass by. He tells Steers this is his chance to put his skills to the test, with the witness’ name and a command to get to Gotham General right this minute. Steers speeds out of the precinct like a racecar, and Jim makes a mental note to take the kid to breakfast.

“Jim?” Lee asks, again, but he only hears it in passing, like a distant whisper.

***

He rings the doorbell five times without an answer. Right when he’s prepared to break down the door, it opens, and a mildly harried Butch Gilzean greets him with an appropriately-confused expression. “Detective Gordon, what—?”

“Where is she?” Jim demands, shoving his way past the larger man before his way can be blocked. “Where’s Iris?”

He can’t explain the sudden urgency churning hot and bitter in his gut, and he can’t explain the strange way he’s acting, with erratic movements and random twitching of the limbs. His skin is crawling with nerves, anxiety a violent force in his blood. He wants to shoot something or break someone or…

…but why? _Why?_

“She’s upstairs.” Butch says, and Jim makes for the staircase like the hounds of hell were after him. “But—Detective, wait! You don’t—she’s not—you shouldn’t—!!”

His speed outruns the man’s bulk and strength, sprinting up the stairs three at a time, and racing down the hallway. All the while, his mind races. The house is empty, much too quiet for a weekend. He’s been here on a weekend, many times since the first. The manor is always full, always ringing with music and laughter and conversation. Now, cold silence, like a cemetery.

Cemetery. Cold. Death. He nearly barrels through the bedroom door when reaching it, and it’s only with a last-minute dose of sanity that he remembers to use the door handle instead of brute strength.

Iris is perched on the mattress edge. Seeing her in a dressing gown that’s loosely tied and her hair looking as though braided by a child’s unskilled hands, his nerves nearly erupt under the vicious anxiety coursing through his system. She looks so old, so terribly worn down and broken, yet cold as marble—again, he thinks of a cemetery, of carved gravestones—and even when he’s made a scene entering her bedroom without permission, her eyes are only for the man lying motionless in the bed.

The adrenaline fades to a dull echo, and Jim cautiously approaches with a mind enraptured by the unsettling nature of this scene. In his usual black attire, Zsasz has always appeared so meticulous, so controlled and composed, untouchable and otherworldly—like some terrible demon from Hell. It’s never been obvious, in any capacity, how pale his skin truly is, how sharp the lines of his body are, how lean the muscle structure is in place of heavy bulk. The scars littered across his body, arms and torso and creeping down to his belly, make Jim’s gut clench. Tallies of five, each one carved into living flesh by some sort of blade, and he only has the worst suspicion as to their purpose. 

But beyond the macabre nature of this sight, Jim sees the darker marks scattered at random across the chest and left arm: five bullet holes, each one handled as if by a surgeon and neatly sutured closed. But still, they are fresh. Too fresh.

“Iris.” He speaks softly, unwilling to break her inner thoughts with a louder intrusion than he’s already made. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink to indicate her awareness of him, and so he steps closer and tries again. On the fifth attempt, she finally speaks.

“I have always understood people’s feelings toward me.” She whispers; her voice is dry, hoarse, cracked as though she hasn’t used it for days. “I understood my parents’ hatred. They made me together, I bound them together in marriage, and I knew they would always hate me for it. The depths to which they expressed their hatred surprised me, at times, and hurt me even more, but I never questioned why. I knew. I always knew, as long as I can remember.”

He dares another step, and she continues talking. “I understood the derision and ridicule of my classmates, when I was a child. I saw the world differently. I learned differently. I thought differently of my peers than they did of themselves, and I was never shy about saying as much. The same is true of my time in your company, at the precinct, with the other detectives and officers. I never learned the purpose of hiding my perceptions of them, of their flaws and weaknesses and inner ugliness, and I knew they would hate me for it. I understood, always…except now.”

Her fingers fist atop the sheets. “I do not understand this, James.” She whispers. “Does he hate me for living? Does he despise me because I had the audacity to come home, to not die in the woods next to that _monster_? Does he seek to destroy me because I want to live and thrive in this city, in my _home_? Why? Why, James, _why_?” Now, he hears something else in her voice, something catching the ends of her words and slurring them on her tongue. “Why does he think it is right…it is _allowed_ …for him to do this to me? What have I done? What did I…what did I _do_ to him, to make him _hate me_ so much? Father, please tell me….”

 _Father._ The word hits the air, crashes over his ears like music, and he moves without consideration. His arms gather her into an embrace, bury her to his chest, to his heart, and the icy composure dissolves with the first sob she loses against his shoulder. From there, a thousand more follow.

“I cannot lose him.” The tears reign supreme now, so any words that manage to escape are second-fiddle to her anguish, and pass in slow, choked gasps. “Not now. Not this way. I cannot…F-Father, I…”

They come to rest on the floor, rug gentle against his knees and shins, and his arms cradle her as he would have—as he ought to have—in younger years, when she was a child, much smaller and thinner and in need of this physical contact: the kind incapable of causing pain, but instead offering comfort and reassurance in silence, not words. Her arms weave around him, fingers clutching frantically at his jacket, and his ears fill with her sobs, her tears, her wordless cries. Fill with them, drown in each one, flood his brain with every…last…one.

***

He kicks the door in with a single, fluid motion and sends it flying across the floor. His gun, at the ready by his side, puts a couple bullets in the men who greet him with weapons of their own. His aim is never terrible—marksmanship is something he prides himself on, after all—but it’s particularly on-par tonight, and he drops both men like flies. Behind the desk, grey-blue eyes greet him with shock and a bit of startled fury in their depths. Then he raises the gun between them, and fear joins the mix.

“You have five minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t put this bullet in your head.” He growls, teeth bared and jaw locked. Now, more than ever before, the endearing terms of _Papa Bear_ and _Father Wolf_ make liberating sense to him.

“I’m sorry, Jim—”

“—Oh, _you_ ’re sorry?” Jim cuts over him, taking three steps forward, gun unwavering from its’ mark. “Did you spend all night in a bullet-riddled street? Do you have a morgue filling up with bodies? Do you have people coming in and out of your office demanding answers for their murdered loved ones? Do you have the media hounding your boss, wanting details left and right? Did you just spend _two hours_ holding your daughter while she cried herself to sleep? Did you put her to bed beside her half-dead lover—the one with _five_ bullet holes in him?”

“Jim, I never—”

“—I’ll tell you what you _never_ , Penguin.” He comes closer, now less than a foot from the desk. “You never once consider the consequences of your actions. You let your mind play out the scene like it’ll go off without a hitch, never taking into account the people involved, and then you back-peddle and spin a sticky web of excuses and half-truths and downright _lies_ to make yourself the innocent party in all this. You never think of anyone but yourself, and how something or some _one_ will benefit you. You play with people like they’re toys and then toss them out in the trash. You did it with Fish Mooney. You did it with Maroni. You did it with Falcone. And above all, you did it with me.”

Two more steps. “You stood there,” he whispers, fingers locked around the comforting steel of his gun, “and told me you wanted proof, from me, that our friendship was passed on trust. On equity. On fairness. _Trust_.” He nearly spits the word, just to relieve himself of the acidic taste on his tongue. “You don’t know what _trust_ is. You promised no one would get hurt, that you would make some calls to get the goods on a murdering cop, and the next thing I know, I have a man groveling at my knees begging for mercy because his wife was nearly drowned for information. You sent me into a firing zone to collect a debt for you. You show up at my work and threaten my daughter’s life without a blink. And now…now, you opened fire on an occupied street. Instead of hiring actual people who knew what they were doing, you gave guns to some amateur idiots and let them have at it. Well, congratulations. You’ve put fifteen innocent people in the morgue. You’ve put over a dozen more in the hospital. You nearly killed my daughter, and may have killed her fiancé instead.”

“Victor,” Penguin finally bursts, slamming both hands on the desk and standing up with fury trembling in his voice, “wasn’t supposed to be there. He was _never_ supposed to be there! He worked for Don Falcone. I took over _everything_ that belonged to the old man, and that should have included _him_! He’s supposed to be here, at _my_ side, like everyone else, not traipsing like a toothless dog with that little—”

Jim puts the barrel between his eyes, finger curled steadily around the trigger. “My daughter.” He whispers. “My child. My baby girl. _My life_.”

Fear returns, and this time there is a distinct tremor in both hands when Penguin lifts them in what probably constitutes a surrendering gesture. “Jim,” he tries again, “all I asked was that she stepped down. That’s all I wanted.”

“No.” Jim murmurs. “You wanted her to disappear. You would have been happiest, had she been left to rot in the woods.”

“I…I wouldn’t have…for your sake, Jim, I would have wanted her found. For a proper burial.”

If that was supposed to pacify him, it doesn’t work. Old nightmares flash across his inner eye, of finding ravaged remains identifiable only by gaping blue eyes, dead and empty, glaring accusingly at him and his failure. He doesn’t pull the trigger, but only barely.

“You know what never occurred to you, Oswald?” he whispers. “That Iris might be an ally, instead of an enemy. That she could be a partner, not a rival. That you could help each other. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d expect nothing more from you.”

He holsters the gun. He’s spilled enough blood this year, and he won’t kill an unarmed man. His father’s memory will not be dishonored in such a way. “Congratulations.” He says, again. “You’ve now unleashed Hell. Good luck weathering this storm.”

“Jim…Jim, you wouldn’t just…”

“Leave you to handle this on your own? Damn straight I would.” He replies. “Thanks to you, I have a city to clean up.”

“Jim—”

“Best of luck, Oswald.” He offers a mocking bow—dramatic, yes; mocking, even more so, but he’s feeling exceptionally spiteful at the moment. “You’ll need it.”

***

“This is the one?”

He’s a tall and lean creature: just enough muscle to not be scrawny or gangly, but with long limbs and large hands. Big feet too. There’s a thin spattering of dark hair across his chest and down the concave line of his belly to narrow hips. She doesn’t look past the hips. The girls have given her the full view, but it remains up to her discretion whether or not she takes advantage of it.

He twists slightly, perhaps seeking comfort from the restraints which have him suspended from the ceiling, just enough off the ground that his toes barely graze concrete floors. The skin of his wrists is already blotched red, pinched tight, but his bravado remains intact. He calls her a vulgar name and threatens her womanhood. The name is one matter, and certainly nothing she hasn’t heard before. The threat to her body is both unwarranted and disgusting.

Tanesha, with a rather sinful smirk, answers the silent gesture with a flourish and cracks a leather cat-o-nine-tails across his lower back. He yelps the first time, the sensation unexpected, and twice more after three consecutive strikes. Then Iris holds up a hand, and Tanesha daintily steps back, still caressing her toy with a wanting gleam in her eyes.

“Beat me all you want.” He finally declares, once he’s caught breath. “I ain’t saying shit.”

“Rest assured, I take great comfort in not having to endure your massacre of the English language.” Iris answers; from the peripheral, she can see Yin and Charlotte exchange a smirk. “The truth is, I have no need for your words. I already know what I need to know.”

“Like hell, lady.”

“I find it unlikely you know anything of Hell.” She speaks softer this time. “Fortunately,” one hand reaches out, and Yin quietly sets a knife in her waiting palm, “that matter is easily rectified.”

The mark she makes across his lower belly isn’t deep, certainly not enough to gut him, but is enough to unleash a thick stream of crimson that quickly bubbles free of parted flesh and dribbles downward in hurried rivers. He gives a pained shout, then grits his teeth and fixes her with a pained, but furious, glare.

“That all you got?” he spits. In the restraints, his hands are locked in fists.

She shakes her head. “This,” she gestures to the cut, “is only the invitation.”

His spite is rattled, and confusion replaces its’ presence on his expression. Then she whistles, soft yet clear as a bell, in nearly-perfect replication of what she has heard Victor make countless times before. And they wait, no more than two minutes. She hears nothing, but feels the attentive look of her child from the doorway, only for a passing second, before all attention has shifted to the bleeding and naked figure suspended from the ceiling.

Shakta appears at her side, blue eyes sharp and so very intent on this new presence, yet she demonstrates great patience and waits. The prey trembles, the response unhidden across unclothed limbs, and all bluster vanishes with his next terrified breath. “No…y-you wouldn’t…”

“As I have warned many people before yourself,” she murmurs, gliding fingers slowly through Shakta’s fur, nails scratching just enough to warrant a purr that resonates against her fingertips, “do not presume to know what I will or will not do. You, like your solicitor, have no idea who and what I am.”

Shakta licks her lips, the telling growl of her hunger and wanting rumbling from her chest. Iris crouches down at her side, presses a kiss to soft white fur, and brings her lips to an ear that twitches accordingly. “ _For your father, my darling_.” She whispers. 

It remains a mystery whether or not Shakta truly understands the language of humans; if she knows English from Russian from French. But Iris lets herself believe, contrary to all science on the matter, the size of a tiger’s brain is not completely traded out for massive jaws, and Shakta is indeed capable of understanding her mother’s commands.

And even if not…those jaws certainly have their use.


End file.
